by Jay, Karla M
“With this transparent God-given fluid more precious than the sacred oils of the ancients, I set you apart from the women of your daily association, to the great and honorable task you have voluntarily allotted to yourselves as citizens of the invisible empire…women of the Ku Klux Klan.”
Chills run through my body.
He continues. “May your character be transparent, your life’s purpose as powerful, your motive in all things as magnanimous and as pure, and your Klan membership as real and as faithful as God has commanded.”
We line up again, this time to approach Miss Barr, the Grand Titan, and his Seven Furies who congratulate us. When I reach Miss Barr, I lean closer and say, “I am Teresa Greer’s friend. I want to thank you for the special invitation to tonight’s ceremony.”
“Ah. The one who wasn’t sure if she was a Quaker or not.” Her voice sounds like she’s kidding, but behind the hood, who can tell.
“Yes.” My voice is pathetic, and I hate that I’m coming off in such a bad light. “I’m sorry I misunderstood the ‘friends’ comment.”
She pulls me a bit closer. Our cloth head coverings touch.
“It’s your job from now on not to misunderstand anything you see.” She squeezes my arm and then turns to the next woman.
One of the Furies extinguishes the cross. “You may remove your regalia,” he calls above the excited conversations.
I neatly fold my robe and hood and try to find Teresa. We’ve been offered a personal ride home by Miss Barr’s group. I wander through the women and return congratulations, but I still don’t see Teresa. When I return to the altar area, Miss Barr and the dignitaries are gone.
I’m furious. How could Teresa leave me like a bloated pig in a well! I’m going to jerk her bald when I get close to her again. Tears prick my eyes, and I will them away. I don’t need to be treated extra fine like Teresa does. As I said in my oath, “May my life’s purpose be powerful.”
With Miss Barr’s touch lingering on my arm, I follow everyone down the hill, walking carefully in the dark. The trolley will deposit me three blocks from home. I head back to my daily life, now a secretly changed woman.
Willow Stewart
Mr. Coburn isn’t dead, but death stalks him where he dropped facedown onto the ground many minutes ago. His body bucks, and my efforts to deafen my ears to his woeful bracken-brown cries of agony are useless.
Got to free myself.
The sharp edge of the wagon’s rusty metal frame works nearabout perfect to cut through these ropes. Now free, I rub my wrists and check the gunshot wound on my arm. The bullet only nicked me, and it will heal though there might be a scar. I need to grind some burdock root and make a plaster.
Coburn is quiet. I walk to his side and prod him with the toe of my boot until he rolls onto his back. He doesn’t respond. Shootfire! His face has gone the color of smoke, and for sure he’s gone, no longer pondering the secrets of death but witnessing them up close. Lord, a man with a tarnished character like his probably got sent to Haints Holler.
I study the field. A wind slides through the tender grasses, pointing green fingers my way. A message arrives on the ripples, that one day I may be judged for letting him eat the poison. And it isn’t too far-fetched in my superstitious nature to wonder if evil will trace its way up Stewart Mountain and punish me by taking Mama to her death.
What would we do without Mama, without her laugh? She makes every chore, no matter how hard, more fun. She’d see us fading on the job and would call out, “Let’s put a tail on it, children!”
Then break into a funny song.
Make a game of tossing shucked pea pods into a bucket.
Or let us draw purple faces on each other during blackberry picking time.
The thought that she might be gone makes me feel heavy and stuck, like a butterfly with its wings torn off told to keep moving.
A cold shiver slithers down my back. I must get to Helen.
Burdock likes dark, moist areas, so I hunt along the forest floor for the big plant with wide wavy-edged leaves. There it is! I pull a handful of stalks. With my teeth, I strip the outer covering and spit out the bitter skin. The fibrous insides are what I need. Back at the wagon, I find a clean tin bowl and smash the plant into a paste, place a handful on my wound, and wrap it with a strip from my torn sleeve. There’s a can of BC Powder on a shelf somewhere, if my recollection hasn’t run off and left me. The powder is good for tooth pain, headache, and both the curse and muscle cramps. Since I helped him with his chigger bites, I reckon taking this from him wouldn’t mean I’m stealing. It’s a simple trade. Besides, his behavior toward me wasn’t worth a cuss, and I’m certain as May mud that his poor wife isn’t missing him and his shabby morals. I rip open the packet and stir the powder in water and swig it down.
Right now, I’m so hungry my stomach thinks my throat’s left these parts for the big city. The wagon is loaded with food, but again my mind pages through my Christian standards. Is it stealing, or reckoning from the man who fondled and shot me? My stomach growls a fierce answer, and I remember the food Ruthy packed for me. I hop out of the wagon and grab my draw-string sack left on the ground where I fell.
I eat all the food except the peanut brittle. I might need those later. Soon, I’m ready to go.
Since there’s no way I can lift the man into the wagon, I have no choice but to leave him. Grabbing his feet, I tug him closer to the bushes. His coat hikes up round his shoulders, leaving a drag trail of turned-up dirt from where I moved him.
Now for the horses. Can’t very well leave one and ride the other. When night falls with no campfire, wild animals will move in. Mr. Coburn won’t know what’s happening, but the horse would be attacked. And since I can’t ride both, I’m obliged to drive his rig into town.
Not quite sure where I am, though, and for a flea’s second, I consider going home. Poppy and the other menfolk could take over dealing with the dead peddler. But I could no more return without a preacher than choose to speak. I need to follow through with my promise.
Stepping through the white clusters of Dutchman’s breeches, I reach the center of the field. From there, Tray Mountain is in view. Coburn moved us eastward a mite and we’re closer to Anna Ruby Falls, still in the thick of the northern forest. I raise my hand to block the sun from directly piercing my eyes and measure its position in the sky. By turning the wagon round, I’ll be headed west again toward the Fancy Road. Not as much off course as I feared.
I close and latch the wagon doors and then glance at the dead man once more. His gun lies near his crumpled body. I pick it up and empty the bullets and toss them into a patch of tall thistle. Then I drop the gun into the pan of hot soup and kick dirt on the fire below to put it out. My bandaged arm aches. Today could very well have ended even more catawampus, with me dead or toting around a life-changing bucket full of regret because I really might have tried to kill him if he hadn’t killed himself.
I slowly approach the horses, praying they don’t have a side of ornery I can’t handle. To get better acquainted, I rub their necks and make eye contact. Soon, they let me hitch them back into their harnesses, and my shoulders relax.
I spot the trail where the peddler entered the field, climb up onto the seat, and click my tongue to get the horses moving. At first, trying to manage two horses is like attempting to braid eels, but I get the feel and keep the wagon in the tracks and upright. I conjure up the character Mr. Toad in The Wind in The Willows. It’s when he’s fixated on his new horse-drawn caravan. Although I have no friends like Rat and Mole to join me, I picture Mama by my side, telling me to be strong.
I should make Helen before sundown, but now I need a preacher and the law. I don’t like that I’m delivering bad news all around.
Forty minutes later or thereabouts, by the look of the sun’s movement, I turn left onto the Fancy Road. The smooth gray surface feels foreign, and the wagon sides no longer clatter and creak. Along the motorway, forsyt
hia sways in the ditch, its yellow blossoms starbright against the grassy fields.
Over the clomp of hooves, I hear a far-off clank of a tractor and see a fallow field dotted with black tree stumps. The sound tells me a farmer is nearby. A truck approaches and my heart quickens. I slow the horses and wave my arms, hoping the person will alert the local police for me, and I’ll have less writing to do to describe what happened with that no-account Mr. Coburn. The rusted truck, piled high in the back with tied-down furniture and two scrawny boys riding on top, doesn’t even slow. The hunched over driver looks as if he has his own troubles that stretch into next year.
Never felt so alone, but I keep going. Faith and hope are fuzzy say-sos wheeling around like swallows in my head. Faith I will get a note off to Briar telling him he needs to come home, and hope I’ll return home to find Mama making a turn for the better.
A speck grows larger on the road ahead. It’s a shiny black car. Lord, be praised! Once again, I wave, but he keeps going. As it passes, I see POLICE written on the hood and a badge on the door. Why isn’t anyone stopping? How many young girls are driving merchant wagons, wildly waving their arms for attention? I know he saw me. A squealing sound cuts the day in half. I look over my shoulder, and like watching a flock of birds suddenly change direction, he spins his car around and heads my way.
I nearly wilt like a pulled weed.
I direct the horses off the road and stop at the edge of a barley field. The late afternoon sun eases toward the horizon behind scruffy strips of clouds. Dusk—when shadows stretch mighty long—will recolor the sky in about two hours. A whippoorwill’s sad call floats across the field, matching my deepest concerns. There’s no chance I’ll return home tonight.
The police car stops behind the wagon. I take my notepad and pencil from my burlap poke and write, I need to fetch a preacher in Helen. I slip the note in my dress pocket. I close the poke and climb down from the driver’s seat. Two sets of policemen’s leather-soled shoes slap the road as they approach. I hold the reins on the jittery horses as the men stop a few feet away.
They study me. I study them. One is taller and has a birdlike face. His eyes are red-rimmed, as if they dislike sitting in their sockets. Both men have deep rows of weathered skin at the back of their necks. The shorter policeman has oversized, disorderly eyebrows, looking for all the world as if baby muskrats are plastered there. With one hand in his pocket, he’s jingling something metal, maybe coins.
“Are you driving this rig all by your lonesome?” Furry Eyebrows says.
I nod.
How do I explain what’s happened to Mr. Coburn? Would they believe the kidnapping account? Snatching and keeping someone is rare, according to Mama. Years back I asked her what kidnapping meant. She explained and assured me folks stealing children happens about as often as the five-year locust, and usually, that locust has come dipped in gold, and money is the allure.
Well, Mr. Coburn was misinformed concerning the riches he’d find coating our stomping grounds. The only things golden atop Stewart Mountain are the gilded ribbons the sun trails across our peaks from morning to night.
Bird Face steps closer. “You own this here wagon?”
My heart drums. Since a lie would follow a person halfway round the world to trip him up again, I shake my head. Reaching into my pocket, I flip a page in the notepad and write, The owner died in the woods.
“He your kinfolk?” Bird Face squints at my note and hands it back. He turns to Eyebrows. “She might be from one of the deviant families up in the hills. Seems to have a defect.”
I start to make hand signs and realize they mean nothing to them. I scribble, My mind is fine but I am mute. I show them my earlier note about needing a preacher and going into Helen.
They confer as if I can’t hear.
“The wagon has a registration tag from South Carolina.” Bird Face adjusts his heavy leather belt. “No sparrow-sized girl drove that wagon this far without a mess of trouble straggling behind her.”
“By the looks of her, something transpired. Ripped dress. Her arm is bandaged.” Muskrat Eyebrows points at my arm, and I take a step back.
A train whistle echoes in the distance. Its hollow sound courses through me, wrapping my heart in pure loneliness. Home feels so far away. I shake my head and begin to write more as they keep talking.
“You take the horses and rig,” Furry Eyebrows says to the tall man. “If she’s running from no good and needs a preacher, I’ll drop her at the Center Baptist Church. She’ll need doctoring too.”
I hand them several pieces of paper. My Mama is very ill. I was heading to Helen when the peddler shot me and tied me up. He ate poison mushrooms. My horse returned home. I had to take his horses and wagon to reach Helen.
“You didn’t know this peddler?” Bird Face raises his eyebrows.
I shake my head.
He continues. “Were you begging food off him? I know some of you folks are a sorry lot.”
I don’t like his attitude. He doesn’t know my family. I write again but realize I’ll run out of paper with all their questioning. More than that, they’re wasting daylight.
I stopped to help him, and he turned no good.
“I’ll carry you on into Helen and get you some help.” Bushy Eyebrows reaches for the horses’ reins and hands them to his partner. “Get a head start, Earl. Leave the wagon at the station but let the horses graze next door in McGregor’s orchard.”
Earl bunches his forehead. Evidently, the idea of being stuck with the peddler’s wagon sticks in his craw like hair on a biscuit.
“What about the dead peddler?” His voice has changed from assured navy to whiney lavender. He climbs onto the seat and waits for an answer.
“I’ll have…” The muskrats above the policeman’s eyes rush together, like long-lost kin embracing each other, and then scuttle apart. “Excuse us, miss, but what’s your name?”
I write Willow and that I’m going to meet my brother Briar. I want them to think I won’t be alone and will be with a man.
The policeman reads off what I wrote and nods. “Those are good mountain names.”
Earl mutters from his perch above me. “Probably named the others Dead Log and Pond Scum.”
The muskrats throw themselves at each other again and stay locked together above flint-blue eyes. “That’s uncalled for, Earl.”
In the same instance, anger sweeps through me like fickle autumn weather. How dare he make fun of our names! In these hills, kin loyalty is above anything or anybody else’s laws. Neighbors have been known to hide a relation out in the laurel, carry him food, keep him posted on the whereabouts of the law, and help him break jail if it comes to that. Mama’s needlework that’s framed and hanging on our kitchen wall proclaims,
Blood makes you related,
loyalty makes you family,
and that is the gosh-darn truth.
I force a smile, knowing if Poppy heard what Earl muttered, he’d have knocked the man’s teeth backwards and watched him spit them out single file. I make hand signs telling him he’s a mean polecat. Earl asks me what I said, but I pretend I don’t hear him.
The nice policeman looks my way.
“Can you draw a map so the coroner can go fetch the dead man?”
I nod. I sign that it’s not far away, no more than a few miles back, and then realize they have no idea what I’m saying. Might as well be chasing away a crazed hornet for all the hand gyrations I made. I miss Mama and Briar, my translators.
“Good. At least that’s what I think you’re gesticulating. We’ll have you draw that when we reach Helen. Earl, you best get a move on with those horses.”
Earl lifts his hat and sets his mouth in a hard line. “See you in town,” he says as he waggles the reins to get the horses and wagon going. The wooden wheels creak, and stones crunch under their weight.
I watch them pull away, and the grace and beauty of those two animals make Earl appear to be a better man than he thinks he is.
&
nbsp; “Let’s get you to Helen.” The policeman starts to put a hand on my back but pulls it away, uncertain. “My name is Sergeant Vissom. Peyton Ray Vissom if my mother’s hollering it.”
His voice is dusky blue, the same color that hovers at the edges of the sky right before the last soft orange of the day blinks off. A trustworthy sound.
As we walk to the car, my legs wobble from a heaping case of the jitters. I’ve never ridden in a motorcar before. And do I dare trust another man?
Mr. Vissom opens the door, and I hesitate before sliding in. I have no choice. Walking to Helen after dark would leave me in a pickle. Where to go? Who to trust? Once settled inside, I rub my hands on the seat. It’s soft like Poppy’s favorite chair, and the car’s insides smell of cigarettes and gun oil. When he pulls out onto the road, and the car picks up speed, I grip the seat with one hand and the door with my other. The windows are open, and the air is ripe with manure and thick pine.
He laughs. “First time in a car?”
I try to look brave, but my jaws are clenched tight.
“Think of it as a faster horse.” Mr. Vissom moves to the wrong side of the road for a moment as we pass Earl and the wagon. Earl raises a hand our way. He must’ve come to harmony with his duty.
“That’s what Henry Ford said, you know?” The policeman shoots his eyes my way. “Or maybe you don’t know. Anyway, Ford invented the first motorized car, and he liked to tell people, ‘If I had asked you all what you wanted, you would have said faster horses.’”
Because I can’t talk, the man assumes I’m dumb and haven’t learned anything. I don’t take offense. But Mr. Vissom is wrong. Mr. Henry Ford did not invent the first automobile, but he figured how to make one more folks could afford. Librarians cover our hollers and leave months-old newspapers with us, understanding our delight in the accounts of the outside world. Mama recited the stories to us while Poppy rocked in his chair and smoked and repacked his corncob pipe. Later, when I learned to read, Mama and I raced to be the first to find the plumb craziest story within the pages.